Insensible to the Dead, Dead to the Living
by Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise
Summary: "The living give meaning to the lives of the dead." But humanity couldn't last forever, and mankind's death meant the death of their legacy. Time would erase all traces of their sacrifice. Now with no distractions-no alternative but to think-waiting for death on a blood-soaked field among the corpses of his men, Erwin Smith ponders mortality. Was it worth it?


_"_ _Can honor set to a leg? no. Or an arm? no. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honor hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word "honor"? What is that "honor"? Air. A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. 'Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism."_

~Falstaff, Henry IV pt. 1

It was quiet.

Dull thuds of titan feet, shouts from far away. Sweet-smelling grass prickled the side of Erwin's face and the palm of his hand.

The world came into focus, breath hollow in his ears. Corpses of men and horses littered the ground, twisted and shattered into shapes urecognizable beneath a crimson spattering.

How long-

His left side. His breath drew short.

 _Screams of his men, thunder of hooves and the report of flares, neighing horses and calamatous crashes as raining boulders found their mark. A blow that struck the breath from his body and his horse pitched forward, broken hip and-_

Hot. It was hot. The left side of his waist tingled and throbbed, deep pain that ripped to his core and reduced his breath to short choking gasps. His fingers tightened into a fist and his hand trembled. Something was sickeningly wrong. His left arm blocked the view of his side but the feeling... Horrified panic tightened his throat, waves of dizziness; the terror not only of the pain but of how _wrong_ it felt. With a tear of that size...he could see it in his mind's eye even as he felt it, insides spilled onto the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, fingers curling into the grass. How was he still alive? How was he still even conscious? How long before he could sleep?

The plain faded out, back in. A haze of time indeterminate, each second a year gone in the blink of an eye. He closed his eyes. How long would this last? How long...

 _Several days earlier_

The door opened to a confused-looking Pixis, clad in a robe and slippers. His drowsy curiosity was replaced with a flash of alarm and he stepped back, gestured inward with a welcoming hand.

Erwin's lack of sleep must have shown on his face. He entered and sighed. "Pixis...I need your help."

The man squinted a moment, head tilted slightly. After a pause he gave a nod and they sat opposite each other at a small table.

Pixis's eyes seemed neutral, but inside was a wary glitter. Confusion as well-after all, Erwin was among the least likely person to turn up here-and curiosity topped with acerbic derision.

 _Sunset atop the wall. Pixis's hands clasped behind his back, facing ahead. He looked back over his shoulder, an edge in his gaze despite the neutral expression. "Unlike you, I value humanity above my own life."_

"You're probably confused as to why I'm here," said Erwin. "I don't blame you. But I have no other choice." He gave a soft laugh. "Seeking counsel among my men will shatter my glowing reputation. I embody the Wings of Freedom, see. I'm an invincible shining knight, aloft on a pedestal, the sum of their aspirations and bearer of humanity's salvation. Maintaining that image is my obligation to mankind." He rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Since you already know I'm not that man, you're the only one in whom I can confide." His gaze found the middle ground past Pixis.

There was a long pause. Then Pixis sighed. "I'm afraid I'm no good at this sort of thing." Another pause. "Talk it out, then. I might be able to help in some small way, actually, as this seems to be an extreme case." He rose and began rifling through a cupboard. Glass clinked. "This won't solve your problems―but it'll take the edge off for a bit. Might be what you need to loosen up."

Erwin shook his head and waved. "No, thank you. I'm having a hard enough time keeping my head clear as it is."

Pixis returned holding a rectangular glass bottle with a narrow neck and two short glasses. He set them on the table before sitting. "Pity. Let me know when you change your mind." He filled his glass and sat back, downed the shot and sighed. "Now, then. This should be interesting. Confide away."

Erwin took a breath. "I was thinking-"

"Oh, that's dangerous."

He half-laughed. "My life's been spent reacting to a world created by others. Now I have the reins, and I don't know what to do. I don't know how to create the world I want because I don't understand my own motivations." He slid his chair closer to the table and rested his elbow on the edge, leaned back against the rest. "My goal was to advance the survey corps because I wanted to learn the truth of this world. I thought it could save humanity." He shook his head. "I can't save us, Pixis. All humans die in the end. We give meaning to our honored dead―I've told that to the recruits a hundred thousand times. What meaning?" He shrugged. "Regardless of what we do, one day there will be no humans left. The world will continue as always until it ends. It will be as if we never existed, our sacrifices washed from the records of time. So what meaning can I give my life, or theirs?"

No answer came. His gaze slipped from Pixis's face to the baseboard. He snorted. "'They lived with honor.' We can say that. I can live with, for, honor. But what is honor? Doing the right thing? By whose standard? Certainly not by that of the titans. In their own way I'm sure they believe they're in the right. Who can judge between us? If right and wrong come from personal standards, our actions are dictated by-by personal convenience!" He gave a bitter laugh. Still no answer from Pixis.

"In that case, honor is a construct created to goad others into sacrificing their lives so those in power can stay there. It's a prod to nudge others into revolt so new leaders can take over in 'honor''s name. The honorable suffer according to their own ideals while the wretched reign in blissful imbecility. Isn't that the way of the world?" He sighed and eyed the liquor. "I changed my mind. I'll take you up on that offer."

Pixis nodded and filled their glasses. "This is good stuff. I'll sum up with old, rare and expensive. You've been avoiding this sort of thing for a little while, haven't you?"

Erwin half-smiled. "Didn't want to get carried away and not be able to stop. It...was becoming too much of a risk."

Amusement glittered in Pixis' eyes. Erwin recalled general's ever-present flask. He shrugged and gestured with an open palm. "Such were my thoughts, at least."

Pixis chuckled and raised his glass. He tipped it towards him and Erwin did the same.

"Watch yourself." They took the shots together. Erwin choked and coughed as involuntary tears welled up and his throat burned. Pixis laughed. "That's the best face you've ever made. I wish I could capture it somehow."

Erwin shook his head, scowling at the glass. "That's awful."

"Yeah." Pixis refilled it. "This stuff has one purpose: the one you're here for. No leisure in it, just a means to an end. Cheers." He lifted his third shot.

Erwin set his aside and exhaled, wiped at the tears spurred by the drink. His eyes were still hot, dangerously close to tears of his own. "If there were no titans, our deaths would come either from old age or our own bloody hands. I've watched humanity tearing itself apart in every level of society. Do you know what I consider to be the main difference between us and the titans?"

Pixis didn't answer, arms loosely folded and the same implacable expression as always. Erwin continued. "As far as we know, the titans are dumb animals. Humans are intelligent enough to devour one another with finesse. Like in Hanji's naming-stories." He shook his head. "Currently and for the most part, our hatred channeled against that foreign enemy unites us. But when our enemy is ourselves, who do we hate?" He took the next shot and gagged again. Pixis refilled his glass.

Erwin closed his eyes. "Why should I risk my life if it all ends in death? Why should anyone risk their lives?" He opened them again, half-recognizing the wall to Pixis's side. "For a fleeting thrill of freedom? How quickly this world steals that away. The thrill dies, and subesquent search leads to infrequent and ever-weakening shadows of the first longing. And what is that longing for? What are we looking for when we say we seek freedom?" His grip tightened around the glass and he shook his head.

"To live a lifetime of pain and suffering, guilt, shame, terror and lonliness while the others grow fat and stupid, to chase a glitter of 'something more' that dies away with age? Either we suffer now and still end the same way, or we wait in our walls and live a happy life that ends in a few moments of terror. And yet I conscript young men and women on the hope of. _..something,_ feed them on scintillating ideals that I can't even support and send them to a life of mental scarring and agony. Am I wrong?"

Tears slipped down his face and he downed the third round. "The first time I went outside the walls I was filled with hope. I saw a land of freedom, where humans could take back what was theirs and live in peace. But then what?" The soaring joy of the memory shattered into piercing shards. "After we defeat the titans, after we take back our land, then the madness resumes. Machinations and plotting and the steady march to oblivion, ourselves as our own worst enemies."

He rubbed his eyes. Heat pulsed to his face and his fingertips tingled. The edges of the room seemed to blur. Tears still ran down his cheeks. "What should I do, Pixis?" he whispered. No answer came. "Shall I live a lie? Intentionally decieve myself and live a charade for my soldiers? Pretend we're doing something meaningful. Pretend our lives matter." His hand shook slightly and he drank a fourth round.

"I could, as they say, live for the present. But if I did that I'd have gotten married and settled down, not torn apart my body and soul and burdened myself with the blood of countless recruits. Thus would humanity perish from my 'living for the present'. So apparently that priveledge falls only to a few. For me and for most others, the hope of a better future is all we have in this wretched world. We fight for it tooth and claw but-as it now seems, that's just as absurd as anything else!"

Pixis cleared his throat. "So...what willyou do?"

Erwin propped his elbow on the table and rested his face in his hand. He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. A moment passed. He lowered his hand and ran the side of his thumb along the table's edge. "I can't explain the things I feel; that longing, my goals, my sense of right and wrong-but I know there must be more to it than what I can see. If an acknowledged lie is all that holds together what I know to be truly good and can't explain, then shall I force myself to believe it? Apparently that's it. Truth comes down to intentional self deception. And yet-and yet-" He slammed his fist on the table and Pixis flinched slightly.

Erwin's voice rose. "There must be more. There must be more to life than that! Where did we come from? Why are we here? Is there any meaning to it all? I need to know, godDAMNit!"

The shout echoed off the walls. His fingers tightened into a fist, chest heaving with unsteady breaths.

Pixis expression was unreadable, seemingly blank. His eyes held a strange light.

Erwin's shoulders slumped. "It's tearing me apart. I know there's an answer and I can't...can't..." he shook his head and resumed his propped-up position on the table. "I have nothing. But..." His voice was broken, choked. "There must be something more."

The room faded in a blur of tears and alcoholic haze. "Must be..."

It faded altogether...

...and the field materialized in its place, heat, pain, moans of the dying and reek of death. "Oh, God," he whispered. His voice was barely a rasp. Hundreds of corpses bathed in blood, a few cries still drifting from the field of massacre. His handiwork. The quintessence of his life. A void ripped in his chest, torn like the entrails from his side. "God." _Is this everything?_ He shook his head. No. No. It couldn't be this. This couldn't be all. Where was the wretched glory of humanity for which those hundreds of lives were sacrificed?

"God." More a moan than a word. A prayer? A desperate plea for someone-anyone-to answer. There must be more. Tears slipped over the bridge of his nose, rolled down his cheek. Vanity? Had his life been given for vanity? For this was humanity's destiny _._

The emptiness in his chest spread, cold. Then he had done no wrong. Life? Death? Meaningless, when all ended in the void. His motivation equal to his enemies', none holding a moral high ground for no high ground could be kept in thin air. It was vain. All vain. But no more vain then the rest of life.

He had done what he thought best. Though it counted for nothing, it was nothing more or less than the nothing achieved by lives and actions of anyone else.

He closed his eyes and drifted...

But it couldn't be. A spark flared to life, chasing away the cold and he woke with a gasp. A creature born into a meaningless world could have no concept of 'meaning', like a creature born into a world without light would never notice the dark. ''Dark" would be an irrelevant word. A crooked line could only be so when compared with a straight one. That meant there had to be a source for those otherwise absurd assumptions of significance and morality. There had to be a standard that resonated with the ideals of honor at his being's core, a source from which they were derived; a timeless source outside of humanity in which their efforts would be remembered.

For only such a source could provide a standard to which all could answer, and could remain constant throughout the sands of history. Only in the light of future hope could this life be redeemed and only when written in the annals of eternity could present actions hold meaning.

It was the only way the ideals that had driven him and those who had followed along his bloody path could exist. Was not the evidence etched into the heart of humanity-morality, hope, self-sacrifice and heroism, love and wonder, beauty and life-enough to prove it? It was the only way. Sacrificing the truth though it looked like madness was throwing away sanity in an effort to become sane. Giving away reality for lack of hard evidence was attempting to justify living a fairy tale with science. The truth may not be tangible, but it was truth nonetheless. To ignore it in the name of reason would be to lose sight of reason altogether.

What was that source? Not a lie. Something real, more real than the ground on which he lay. Perhaps now as time ran short he would accept a placeholder for the full truth. An objective source, a cosmic glue-until he could put a name to it, he would believe that it _was_ , based on the unshakeable evidence in his heart. And if it was, then so was he vindicated in his upholding honor, upstanding in his search for truth, noble in his sacrifice, justified in his actions; his men were heroes, their efforts righteous and their opposition wrong.

He sighed and closed his eyes again. Release.

An echoing voice. "Commander!"

Crackling grass and a thud beside him, a touch on his shoulder. A survivor? His eyes were too heavy to open.

"Can you hear me?" The boy's voice trailed off into sounds, lost in the darkness.

It was alright.

His brave men and women; his noble soldiers. Lives lived to fullness and lost in tragedy would be immortalized in glory as a beacon for future heroes.

For those who had pledged their hearts, it was worth it.


End file.
